Seven Kisses
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She thinks about their first kiss and how it happened on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday afternoon." Six short chapters about seven mostly made-up kisses.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Seven Kisses

WC: ~700 this chapter

Rating: T

Summary: " She thinks about their first kiss and how it happened on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday afternoon."

A/N: Nothing but fluff. It'll be six chapters all told, and the chapters should be up in pretty rapid succession.

* * *

It's a Wednesday afternoon the first time he kisses her.

He spins her around in the bright sun as she fumbles her phone back into the confines of her coat pocket. He has her by the thick fabric of winter coat sleeves, and he's dancing her in dizzy circles. He's clearing a crowded street corner with his antics. Crowing loud enough to scatter New Yorkers, yelling that Lanie is a genius and he _hates _that guy and they _got _him.

"Castle," she snaps at him and ruins it with a laugh. Because he's ridiculous and it's _cold _and they don't actually have him yet. Not yet, and she hates that guy, too, so they have to get back. They have to nail his smug, sneering ass to the wall, and they finally have just what they need to do it.

"Castle!" she says, again. Sharper this time, but she's still smiling. She digs in her heels and pulls him up short. She grabs the front of his coat and stops the spinning. She pulls him out of the stream of foot traffic and tries to frown. "We have to get back."

"We do," he says. He smiles and comes along willingly. He leaves the arc of his own motion and follows the tug of hers.

His whole body travels a straight line to hers. She feels the drag of his palms up over her shoulders and the cold press of his fingertips on the bare skin above her collar. She sees the flicker of a question in his eyes and something stubborn and wicked and terrified when he decides not to wait for an answer.

"We got him." She hears the triumph in his fierce whisper and tastes it on his lips when they touch her own. A firm, defiant press. He chases it with something softer. A smile she can feel and taste. A question hovering. This time he waits. He pulls back. He lingers with one fist tangled in the blunt ends of her hair and a warm puff of breath hanging in the air between them.

He waits and her eyes pop open. It's a question she doesn't answer. She _can't. _She's every bit as surprised—every bit as _stunned_—that he's _not _kissing her now as a second ago when he was.

He smiles down at her then. Like he has an answer, whether she gave one or not.

"You got him, Kate." His voice is soft, but every bit as fierce. Every bit as _joyful_. "You're amazing."

"Amazing." He says it once more and steps away.

His hands drop to his sides and the two of them turn. They both turn, like nothing happened. They fall in step. They make their way through the cold and the crowds and the Wednesday afternoon sun, laughing and bumping shoulders just like nothing happened.

They get the guy. They set him up and knock him down. Neither of them looks his way when he drags by in cuffs, still sneering.

Castle goes home. He says goodnight, same as always.

She watches him go, same as always.

She still hates him. She steps out into the cold when she's finally done with the paperwork, and that's her first thought.

They've only known each other a few weeks, and officially—if anyone asks—she still hates him. She does. Unofficially, too.

She absolutely _hates_ him following her around. She hates him looking over her shoulder and going through her things. She hates the way he won't listen. The way he's always trying to get himself killed.

She bows her head into the wind. She presses her fists hard against the flutter in her stomach and reminds herself that she still hates him.

But she lies in bed and thinks about it that night. She thinks about the sun and the cold on her cheeks. She thinks about the annoyed scatter of people and the way he called her Kate. She thinks about their first kiss and how it happened on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Seven Kisses, Chapter 2

WC: ~1000 this chapter, ~1700 total, so far

Summary: "But it doesn't end because he kisses her. It doesn't end with a tiny smile and wishes barely stirring the air between them." The second of six short chapters about seven mostly made-up kisses.

A/N: Thank you, sincerely, for the volume and warmth of reviews for chapter 1. I hope this continues to appeal. (Damnyouautocorrect suggests "apocalypse," rather than "appeal." It's clearly on Brain's payroll.)

* * *

She doesn't know what day it is the second time he kisses her.

It's such a brief thing. A moment and an awful case. Cold and evil. _Evil. _It's not a word she uses lightly, even in her own mind. But it's an awful case.

The two of them have been going flat out for so many hours in a row that it doesn't pay to count. It's such a brief thing, and she has no idea at all what day it is.

She stops in the stairwell. They're on their way back out again. Out into cold dismal rain to chase another lead they both know is dead end. Or out into bright sun, maybe. She doesn't even know that, but they have to go. It's a dead end in an awful case. It's all they have.

She stops on the landing just a few steps below him when she realizes that he has. When it hits her that, for once, he's not following.

She looks up to see him slumped against the wall like he can't pick up his feet. His knuckles are white on the railing and he startles when she says his name. He blinks down at her like he's not sure where he is.

She starts to say his name again. She starts to tell him to go home, but something stops her. Something behind his eyes she's never seen before. Something she doesn't like seeing at all.

_A child._ It's how she's used to thinking of him, and there's something of that in him now. He's bewildered by all this and there's something of the little boy she's in the habit of seeing. In the way his shoulders hitch. In the way he looks to her for answers.

But there's a man's weariness, too. It baffles him. The evil of the act. The indifference of every single person who might've stopped it. Of every person who could help them now if they could be bothered. But none of it surprises him.

"How do you stand it?" he asks faintly and there's nothing of the little boy in that at all.

She knows what he means. That he's not asking about riding the caffeine tide for so many hours in a row or not even knowing what day it is. Not knowing what the weather's like or if the sun still up. That's not what he's asking.

"Used to it." She shrugs, but the words are terrible in her mouth. Stale and terrible.

"I'm not," he says. He shakes his head. "I'm not used to it."

"Good." The word blazes up her throat. It burns away some of the awful and something unfamiliar tugs at her cheeks. It takes her longer than it should to realize it's a smile. The smile she saves for him. "You shouldn't have to be."

He's there in front of her. All of a sudden, or maybe not. Maybe it's slow and deliberate. Maybe it's a question or a plea. Maybe it's fair warning.

She's caught up in her own thoughts. In wondering why she needs him to be surprised. In the hard work of this tiny smile. She doesn't hear him move or notice his shadow fall over her. She doesn't realize he's right there until his hands are on her shoulders and he's silently turning her body toward his.

"You shouldn't have to be, either." He kisses her. It's the second time, but it will be a long while before she thinks of it like that. Before she thinks of it at all. It's such a brief thing. Just a sorrowful brush of his lips at the corner of her mouth and a whisper that barely stirs the air. "I wish you weren't."

She's caught up in him, then. In the hungry pause between them and something more. His mouth opening against hers and the chase of his tongue. She's caught up in this brief thing. The two of them standing together a moment. His forehead bowed against her cheek.

But it doesn't end because he kisses her. It doesn't end with a tiny smile and wishes barely stirring the air between them.

It's an awful case. The hours still run together and it's raining when he pushes the door open at the bottom of the stairs and holds out an arm to usher her through. The sun is down and she never really knows how many times it comes up again before it all ends. She never really knows what day it might have been.

It's such a brief thing. More like a real kiss than that first, sunny, defiant moment, but less she wants to think about. He doesn't call her Kate or tell her she's amazing. There's no joy so fierce she can taste it. She doesn't press heavy hands over the flutter in her stomach later and tell herself she still hates him.

They're not the people they were on that street corner, turning in sunlit circles and pressing together to cheat the cold. That's not who they are in that stairwell. It's not who they are when it ends. It's a brutal string of days. It takes its toll on both of them, and they weren't those people when all this started.

He's betrayed her trust, and she's realized it's not so simple. That he did it for him, but for her, too. And for this. Because there are awful cases, cold and evil, and that doesn't surprise him anymore, but it makes him follow her into the rain with no idea what day it might be. Because he's a bewildered little boy and a flawed, good man.

They're not those fierce people, spinning in the sun. And it's such a brief thing, but when he kisses her—when they stand together for a moment in something like rest—she thinks they might be better.

She thinks they could be.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Seven Kisses, Chapter 3

WC: ~1500 this chapter, ~3200 total, so far

Summary: "He sees it now. How she keeps to herself. How she's _been _keeping to herself all this time. How all the sadness crept back in while he was gone. The thing that sets her apart. The way she folds in on herself until she's all these places light can't reach." The third of six short chapters about seven mostly made-up kisses.

A/N: So this one is not as fluffy.

Thanks to Cora Clavia for casting her eyeballs over roughly 6 billion drafts of this.

* * *

It's a Friday night. They're out for drinks. All of them. It's a disaster.

Lanie invited him. Sort of. She said the words. _Drinks. All of us_. It wasn't quite an invitation, now that he thinks about it, even though she told him the time and place.

It wasn't quite an invitation. More than he expects though, lately, and he was grateful. Relieved and eager to have things back the way they were. He was an idiot. He _is_ an idiot.

He's been back a few weeks and it's cold shoulders all around. Even on the better days—the days when they all pretend it's like it was before—he feels it underneath. They're pissed. Furious. Angry. All of them. And Beckett . . .

It's been a disaster all these weeks. Every day since he left, and he'd like to argue. He'd like to be furious, too. Angry. Pissed. He'd like to shout that she's the one who sent him away. That she lied and then didn't lie and he left. So things wouldn't be _awkward. Tom and I. Together_. He wants to shout all that. But he stares into the flat surface of his beer and wonders how soon he can leave.

Lanie invited him, but no one wants him here. Tonight—this—it's about Lanie and Esposito, anyway. They still think no one knows. And Lanie must think this is some kind of ingenious cover. _Drinks. All of us. _Like they never do. Not since he's been back.

Not while he was gone, either, he thinks.

They're out of practice at this. Ryan is trying. Lanie, too, but it's awkward. Esposito is bad at all of it. Liking a girl and trying not to let the world know. Lanie glares and gives her drink a sullen stir. Ryan spends a lot of time looking away. At the ceiling and out the window. Not seeing the way they pinch and elbow each other. Not noticing the completely obvious.

But that's not the worst of it. It's about Esposito and Lanie, but it's not. It's about her. Beckett. They're out of practice with _her._ They're careful. Drawing her out, but not too much. And she's trying. She has to try, every second.

The too-bright conversation starts and stops, over and over, and it strikes him. Sudden clarity in the flat surface of his beer: She's lonely.

He watches her. Watches all of them with her. How careful they are, but he's bolder by the minute. No one wants him there. No one's really paying attention, so he watches.

He sees it now. How she keeps to herself. How she's _been _keeping to herself all this time. How all the sadness crept back in while he was gone. The thing that sets her apart. The way she folds in on herself until she's all these places light can't reach. Until it's something dark that keeps her turning and untouchable. Alone.

He thinks he sees it, but he doesn't trust himself. Not with her. Not anymore.

It's a disaster. Not just tonight. All these weeks, and he's just seeing it now. It's not the same. It's not going to be the same. He's waited all these weeks. He's been waiting. Thinking that she just needed time. He was so relieved when she took him back. So _grateful. _But it's not the same.

It's never going to be the same. It's not just a matter of time until she remembers that she likes him. That whatever else she doesn't feel, they're friends, and she wants him around. He looks and listens. He sounds out the hollowness of her and knows this isn't something he can just wait out. It will never be the same.

He wants to go. Before his own fury bubbles over. It's a disaster already. Suddenly and urgently, he just wants to go before it gets worse.

He needs a minute, though. He takes a long swallow of beer. His glass meets the table a little harder than it should. They all jump. Their heads twitch toward him and away and he cringes.

"Excuse me," he mutters, but no one's listening. No one wants him there.

He slips from the stool and pushes through the press of bodies. It's crowded. Loud and pulsing with shouted conversations. Deafening intimacy, and he's just now noticing the music.

He heads for the back. Has no idea where the bathrooms are, but it doesn't really matter. He just needs a minute. He'll get himself together and make his goodbyes. For now. For good. He doesn't know. He just needs a minute.

He hears his name, though. A ragged shout over the thumping bass and it's so improbable, he thinks he imagined it. He thinks he must have, but he turns anyway. It's her voice, real or not, and he turns anyway.

The crowd opens up. Parts and closes again behind her.

"Beckett." He blinks.

The grimy barroom light flickers over her skin. It sends an eerie shiver all through him, but it seems to be her. It really seems to be her.

She followed him. His eyes deliver the information, but it falls flat. His mind doesn't know what to do with it. She followed him.

"Beckett," he says again.

She kisses him, then. No hesitation. She steps right into his body and kisses him without a word. Like she must have known he was going. Like she's been waiting for a dark corner to kiss him because she doesn't want him to.

He doesn't understand.

It's the only thing he's understood in weeks. Months. Since the day he left.

Beckett—_Kate_ . . . she's kissing him and this is Kate. _Kate. _He winds an arm around her, tight as it will go, and this is Kate. She's kissing him and this makes three.

_Three._ Not that he can count right now. Not that counting is an option, but the number rattles around his head. That she kissed him this time and this one makes three. He understands, even though it doesn't make any sense at all.

She's pissed. Angry. Furious. Isn't she? All night, she's been that and worse. Bleak. Empty. Lightless and_ hurt._ But she's kissing him now and all of that's gone.

She's not angry. Not right now. She's lonely. He tastes it on her tongue and feels it in the way her breath chases his. She's _lonely._

_He's_ angry now. He thinks he should be. That he should take her by the shoulders and shake her. Shout that he never wanted her to be lonely. That he left because he thought she wanted him to go. Because he's an idiot and he misread everything and it was awkward and when the hell did there stop being a _Tom and I _anyway?

He thinks he should be angry, but she's kissing him.

He kisses her, back. He slides his hands into the soft fall of hair framing her face and lets her body take his willingly back and back until he's pressed to the wall and she's _kissing_ him.

He's kissing her, too, but she started it.

She started it. Followed him away from the table. Away from the disaster every day has been since he left. She followed him like she knew he was going.

She's kissing him now. Again and again. A deliberate end to one. A drawn out sweep of her eyelashes over his cheek. The pointed start of another and she winds greedy fingers up the back of his neck. Like she misses him, too, and she doesn't want him to go again.

She's kissing him and he wants badly to believe. He wants that to be why she followed. He wants that to be why they're here. Now. In the dark corner of a grimy bar with music pounding away somewhere else entirely. He wants that to be why she's kissing him. Because she doesn't want him to go. Because she never did.

He wants that all to be true. He wants the last few months to unravel. He wants to understand everything as clearly as this moment.

He says her name. _Kate_.

Her eyes open wide, then, and she's going. She's murmuring apologies. Broken thoughts, and he's trying not to panic, but she's _going._

"Kate."

He keeps hold of her and she doesn't fight. She's far away, but she won't struggle with him for once.

She lifts a hand to his face and pulls herself up tall. She leans into him and kisses his cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

She doesn't fight when he holds her to him. When he tangles his fingers in her hair and asks why. _Why, Kate? _

She doesn't fight. She presses a hand to his chest and he feels it. The buzz and rumble of his phone.

_Gina._

He lets her go. His hands fall away and his mouth drops open and he can't think of anything to say.

She can. She whispers _Sorry _again. Like she's the one who should be.

"Don't be," he whispers after her. He chokes on the only thing he can think to say, but she's already gone.

"Please don't be sorry, Kate." She's gone, but he whispers it anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Seven Kisses, Chapter 4

WC: ~1700 this chapter, ~4900 total, so far

Rating: T

Summary: "It's the end of one moment. Of the bad idea and the plan. Of anything practical. It's the end of that and the beginning of this. The fourth time." The fourth of six short chapters about seven mostly made-up kisses. Takes place during Knockdown (3 x 13).

A/N: Sorry for it taking longer to get this up; it's harder when I have a real episode to be faithful to.

Thanks again to Cora Clavia for hand holding. Also for backseat pilot pr0n.

* * *

She knows from the moment he holds his arm out to her. The moment she slams herself into his chest. She curls her fingers in his coat and her whole self against his body and she _knows._

He laughs. She laughs. It's an act. It's not. It's giddy, rumbling relief to have him surrounding her. To have him at her side and the world finally righted, even though they're staggering for show.

She knows sooner than that. Long before he holds his arm out to her. She's known for weeks. Months. An exact count of days since she kissed him. Desperate in a dark corner of some forgettable bar after so long without him. So long with out him even after he'd come back. She knows it's inevitable.

But she feels light pouring over her. The moment she lands against him, she feels it pouring over the two of them, even though the alley is nothing but a wash from underneath. Oily puddles greedily drinking in what little there is. Slick pink and sickly green rolling over the toes of his shoes. All she can see of him when she dips her head and whispers.

_He's not buying it._

He's not. The guy on watch is huge, and this is impossible.

Even still, she feels light. Stuttering memories of her arms spread wide. Fingers curled around the shutters and light pouring in on them both as he stands beside her. Finally. Again.

_When did you start?_

_Over the summer._

A few low words about all the things no one knows. No one but the two of them, and the world comes somehow right again.

Even now, with a dumb idea and a brick wall of a thug who's not buying their act. Even now, when for all they know, Ryan and Esposito are dead already.

They're not, though. She knows. It's impossible. She doesn't believe anything that wrong could possibly be. Nothing that wrong can possibly happen with her head against his shoulder and the two of them in this together.

Even though she's with Josh, and he can't just suddenly be over Gina. Because that's not how it works. Because he was _married_ to her. He was with her again for months. _Months._

Still, they're in this together. Still, she knows: It's inevitable.

She stops and turns. She faces him. He knows already. He knows before she does that she'll go for her gun. He knocks her hand away.

It's inevitable. It shocks her still. It spins out into the longest moment of her life, and she's overwhelmed.

He faces her down. Ducks his head and comes for her. A decision and a second guess. The barest of pauses before he closes what she can hardly call space between them. Long enough that she knows what he's doing. All the things he's saying in that fraction of a breath.

It's the end of one moment. Of the bad idea and the plan. Of anything practical. It's the end of that and the beginning of this. The fourth time.

It's him kissing her, and his whole heart is in it.

_It's not your fight._

_The hell it isn't._

It's not a dare to annoy her or even comfort in a stairwell. It's not a raw, hard-won kind of reconciliation. Something stolen, even though they both forgot. Even though neither of them realized until after she was kissing him and he was kissing her that he couldn't be. That they couldn't.

It's him kissing her, even though he shouldn't be now. They shouldn't. He knows about Josh. He knows how far she ran after that night in the bar, and this is him giving chase. All of this. The inevitable kiss and everything else.

_Where's Josh?_

_Josh know about this?_

It's him kissing her, fair warning given long ago. All of that far behind them both for now. Answers they both know that needed saying out loud. This is him, stubborn and wide open and by her side. Always by her side.

It's him kissing her, and the light goes on in the world. For the first time in twelve years. For the first time in her life, maybe, the light goes on in the world.

She notices everything. The dull thrum of the city and heavy footsteps that annoy her. That she knows she should be worried about. But she's not.

She's present. With him and too busy with this. Noticing everything. The welcome taste of him and warm steady weight of his palm against her bloodless, ice-cold cheek. The sheer breadth of his body and the drift of his hand at her back now. The way he gathers her to him. Letting loose her wrist and willing her to stay. Willing her to understand what this is.

She does. She understands. It's him kissing her, whatever else is happening around them. Even though her hands are dangling stupidly at her sides and it's all she can do to breathe.

It's the fourth time, and it could have just as easily gone the other way. Despite Josh. Despite every reason this can't happen. Ever. Despite the thousand _nevers_ she's filed away over the last three years. However far she runs.

It's inevitable.

* * *

She pulls away from him.

_No. Too soon. Never._

_Kate._

It's what he wants to say. Because she pulls back, and dark rushes in. Like an old TV screen. Light retreating to a single point of indefinite blue, and even that winks out, leaving only black. He knows, then.

They can't do this. They shouldn't.

They aren't.

_She_ wasn't.

_I'm open to dumb ideas here._

That's all this was. Not even expedient. Just the only choice and hardly even that. Nothing more than that to her. A dumb idea that he took too far. She'll probably shoot him for it later.

_Can't. Shouldn't. Aren't._ He knows all of that the second she pulls back.

She isn't.

The second after that, he sees it in her eyes. Bitter confirmation in the blank shock. In the total stillness of her body and the space she puts between them.

_I'm sorry._

It's what he almost says. When he sees her face, it almost spills out of his mouth. Blank shock and total stillness. But in the end he can't lie. He won't. He's not sorry.

He feels his empty hands make themselves into fists. His shoulders stiffen and he braces. He won't look away. He almost says that, then: _I'm not sorry._

He almost says it. That it wasn't just a dumb idea for him, and he's not sorry. That he knows every _can't–shouldn't–aren't_ about this. He knows, but he _is._ He has been since the first time he kissed her, and the only thing he's sorry about—the only thing he regrets—is that he ever stopped kissing her on that street corner. That he ever let go and they've come to this. _Can't. Shouldn't. Aren't._ He's sorry about that.

His mouth opens. He reaches down inside himself. He searches empty spaces for breath. For air to say it, but her eyes flick to the left just then. Her left, and he remembers. Ryan and Esposito and blood on his hands. Blood on her shirt and blank shock of his own.

_You're hit._

He remembers. Goes still and has nothing. Nothing.

She kisses him, then. She's on him. Fierce and open mouthed.

He meets her. No hesitation, though he's dark and heavy inside. He meets her, though there's no distance to close. His arms go around her. He holds her.

It's an act. That's all it is to her. He knows that. He knows it with a hollow, relentless certainty. But he holds her. He can't be sorry, even now. However little it means to her—_nothing; it's an act_—he can't be sorry.

He feels the sweep of lashes on his cheek. The gesture of her fingers at his shoulder and he knows that her eyes open and close. It's an eerie feeling. Like he sees what she sees. Like her eyes open and a gesture at his shoulder shows him. Wills him to see what she sees.

It's an act. She hasn't forgotten why they're here. Not for a second. Her attention is on the looming mountain of black to her left. Her left. His right. It's an act.

He throws himself into it with a will. He turns them. Kisses her hard and puts his body between them. Between her and the looming mountain of black. So she has a better vantage point. To shield her. So he'll die first. Something stupid, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters.

He kisses her hard and something happens. Something shakes loose or rears up or flares to life. In her. Between them. Electricity. Light. A sound from her—a _sound_—and teeth. A nip sharp enough to draw him into her. To take his breath and jerk him closer. To reacquaint his fingers with the soft fall of hair that frames her face.

Something happens and she's pressing herself into him. Her mouth opens again and again and again and her arms come around him. Gathering and seeking. Fixing the two of them together.

Something happens and it's not an act.

_Can't. Shouldn't. Aren't._ Something happens, and all of that is gone.

She's here. He tastes and feels and _hears_ her. A _sound._ He knows: She is. He is. _They_ are.

They are. But it's over so soon.

_No. Too soon. Never._

Kate.

It's what he wants to say, because here they are, but she's spinning him away. Some uncompromising move from her shoulders. Fluid and terrifying in how quickly it all happens. She's strong. Fucking superhuman in the here and there light of the alley The looming black mountain is on the ground and it's over so soon.

_Five._

He wants to say that, too. To mark the occasion, because this makes five.

But he doesn't. The truth comes out when he can breathe again. When he reaches down inside himself and finally there's air. The simple, true thing he's known from one to the next. Five times over.

_That was amazing._


End file.
